Jill’s graveside funeral was closed to all but the family. Myrtle had a suspicion that this was because Cullen was too intoxicated for the town to witness him at his wife’s funeral (and gossip about it later.) Instead, they had a visitation at the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home the morning before the funeral.
Cullen made an appearance for only a few minutes before one of his cousins drove him back home. Willow was there, wearing a black and brown caftan and with her white hair pulled back severely in a leather band. Cullen’s brother, Simon, took his place and stood to greet visitors with his wife, Libba, beside him. He seemed coldly reserved, but dutiful.
Libba smiled appreciatively at everyone and looked as if she were itching to bring out food and beverages. She looked painfully aware that this was not the way she’d been brought up to do funerals in the South. In small towns like Bradley, it was still customary to have the visitation at the family home, not the funeral home. There should be a frantic day of cleaning to get the house company-ready, a dining room table groaning with Chicken Divan casseroles, and an army of church ladies bossing each other around.
“I’m so sorry,” murmured Myrtle to Simon and Libba. “I really did like Jill.”
They thanked her and Myrtle signed the guest book and walked out to the Gates of Heaven’s front lobby. She was horrified to hear Erma Sherman’s voice, at its usual high volume, “I’ll never forget the sight of her, dead as a doornail on the kitchen floor. Such a shame about that barbeque, too. At least it wasn’t a total waste, since we all helped ourselves to it. And soon we won’t have to be barricading ourselves in our houses, either. Myrtle knows who did it! She said she’s just collecting some evidence and then she’ll get Red to lock him up.”
Myrtle froze in horror as Red picked that very moment to walk out of the Caulfield’s visitation room. His expression was stormy. Beside him was Willow, looking frozen.
“She just needs a little more evidence, you know. Can’t turn somebody in without any evidence. But the murderer is sure to screw something up. The killer wasn’t smart killing Jill like that, anyway. Blood everywhere! And supper club on its way over.”
Finally someone in Erma’s group caught a glimpse of Willow’s usually-pale face now blotched with red at the mention of Jill’s blood. “Shhh!” she said to Erma, who clapped a hand over her mouth. But Erma was determined to make the best use of the spotlight. “I was thinking it could be Georgia. You know? Because Georgia hated her guts. And she could have easily walked over to Jill’s house from Miles’s.”
Willow spun around and scurried back into the visitation room. Elaine winced at the scene and looked questioningly at Myrtle. Myrtle just shrugged. She wasn’t going to admit to anything. Not while Erma was being so unexpectedly interesting.
“Erma! For heaven’s sake,” said Tippy. “Georgia’s just standing right over there!”
And she was. Glowering. “And I’m thinking I could save time by taking you out right here in a funeral home. Since there are caskets here and everything.”
Miles looked intrigued.
Erma had the grace to blush an unbecoming shade. “Did I say your name? I meant that Sherry probably did it. She hated living next to Jill. Bad blood there, you know.”
Myrtle was, by now, thoroughly enjoying herself. Erma was really very self-destructive today, which was unlike her. Sherry was standing right behind her ... until she moved around to shoot Erma a look that would freeze hell itself and stalked off.
Erma didn’t look nearly as discomfited by the experience as an ordinary person would, but she wasn’t as chatty as she usually was, either. After Erma started behaving herself, the visitation got a lot duller.
Tippy moved closer to Myrtle and murmured, “How do you stand living next door to her?”
“I’m a saint.”
Tippy looked doubtfully at Myrtle and changed the subject. “I offered to pick up Willow and take her to the United Methodist Women luncheon tomorrow. The covered dish one? I thought it would be a good idea for her to get out of the house a little, since she’s looking sort of puny. You mentioned at the supper club that you were interested in doing more with the UMW.”
Tippy said this as a statement of fact. Myrtle winced. She must have said that during a lull in the conversation. She hated awkward little lulls. Tippy, as president of the United Methodist Women, would naturally be happy to capitalize on Myrtle’s moment of weakness.
“So I hope we’ll see you there tomorrow. It’s a great little lunch and then we’ll discuss business. We’re really looking for members to join our Bereavement Visitation Casserole committee.”
Myrtle nodded glumly. She’d expected as much.
Miles walked with Myrtle back to her house.
“Did I tell you,” asked Myrtle, “how much I’m enjoying The Master and Margarita? I’ve been completely bowled over by it.
“Really.” Miles folded his arms over his chest as he walked. “What was your favorite part of Bulgakov’s book?”
“Oh, it’s so hard to choose a favorite part with a book like that. With classic literature like The Master and Margarita, every bit plays like a finely tuned instrument.”
“Did you like the part where Anthony renounced his family and embraced a nomadic existence, living solely on the kindness of strangers?” asked Miles.
“Now that you mention it, yes. Yes, I loved that part. It really exhibited his unique spirit and search for something important outside himself. Something absent in his life.”
“Myrtle,” said Miles in a grave voice, “I completely made that part up. There’s not even an Anthony in the book. The book is a satire on atheist socialism and stifling bureaucracy in 1930s Moscow.”
“Oh,” said Myrtle. She suddenly felt very cross.
“What was it that you wanted? You might as well just come out with it.”
“I’d like to borrow your car,” said Myrtle.
Miles winced. He was as protective over that silly Volvo as an old biddy with her cat, thought Myrtle.
“Do you remember how to drive?” asked Miles in a halting voice.
Myrtle narrowed her eyes. “Of course I do, Miles! I drove a car for forty years. I could drive your car in my sleep.”
“That’s what I’m worried about! You said car rides make you sleepy.”
“When I’m a passenger!” said Myrtle.
“Why don’t I just drive you wherever it is that you want to go?”
Myrtle glared at him. “Because I don’t want you coming along!” She gave him a huffy sigh. “I’m going to see a psychic. That’s all. And she’s a little skittish.”
Miles just stared at her. “A psychic?”
“Don’t get all superior on me. You know very well that there were psychics even in Atlanta. And this one has reliable information sometimes. Her name is Wander.”
“Wander?” said Miles, tasting the unfamiliar name on his tongue.
“Wanda, I guess. But her brother calls her Wander.” Miles still looked hesitant and Myrtle said impatiently, “She’s someone I met during my last case—she lives out in the sticks with her brother, Crazy Dan. This might sound crazy, but I think she might have Powers.”
Miles squinted doubtfully at the word Powers. “Welllll ... all right. But please make sure I don’t end up regretting this.”
Myrtle’s trek to the psychic took her down an old rural highway lined with decaying motels and ivy-infested buildings. Before the interstate system, Myrtle remembered the road had been a bustling thoroughfare. Now no one really hopped on the road unless there was construction or an accident on the interstate that they were desperate to avoid.
There weren’t many houses out there. Except for Crazy Dan’s. And Crazy Dan and Wander weren’t the kind to embrace change. A rotten sign proclaiming “CRAZY Dan’s Boil P-nuts, Hubcaps, Fireworks, Live Bait!!!” was next to another decrepit sign with a palm and “Madam Zora, Sykick” barely visible. Myrtle pulled off down the dirt driveway into Crazy Dan’s yard. She took out her cane and
walked carefully to the house, avoiding tree roots sticking out of the red clay.
The last time she’d come by Crazy Dan’s tiny house, she’d puzzled over announcing her arrival. The shack was completely covered by hubcaps. Even the front door. And there was no doorbell. This time she didn’t hesitate before lifting up her cane and rapping it forcefully against one of the metal hubcaps.
Crazy Dan opened the door and stuck his grizzled face out. His face was nearly covered too—by a wild, mangy beard and shaggy gray hair. “You agin!” As if it’d been mere hours instead of months. “What’cha want this time?”
The man was the worst salesman in the history of the world, thought Myrtle crossly. You’d think, if someone actually drove down that rural highway and actually became interested by the weather-beaten sign and actually cared enough to show up at your tin can of a house, then you’d have your best sales face on. “I want,” she said, testing the waters, “some live bait.”
Crazy Dan’s eyes squinted at her in his leathery face. “What for?”
“To catch fish with, what else? Your sign promises live bait.”
He expertly spat a stream of tobacco at the base of a pine tree. “Ain’t got none.”
“How about a hubcap then? You’ve got plenty of those.” Myrtle nodded toward his house.
“Can’t. House’d fall in if I take one of ‘em off.”
“Never mind. What I really came for is Wanda. I need some psychic advice. She’s here, isn’t she?” Myrtle was pretty sure that Wanda was always there. The cars in the dirt yard were all set up on cinder blocks and appeared to have broken down at some point in the 1980s, judging from the models.
A shrewd look passed over his wizened face. Money was sure to be at the bottom of that look. Probably already wondering if he could get Myrtle to be a frequent client of Wanda’s. Then he could replace whatever part had gone bad in one of those old heaps and escape from the shack every once in a while.
“Wander? I mean, Madam Zora? Yeah, she’s here. Lemme run git ‘er. You kin git yer fortoon outside.”
That was fine with Myrtle. She’d gone inside the hubcap house last time and had no desire to repeat the experience. A minute later, Crazy Dan returned with a crone that was, except for the scraggly beard and hopefully a few other parts, an exact replica of Crazy Dan himself. He also carried a decrepit rocking chair that Myrtle gathered she was to sit in. Wanda put down a stepstool in front of her and looked gravely at her.
“Yer still alive,” she said in a gravelly, cigarette-damaged voice. “I’m amazed.”
Myrtle felt the same chilly frisson course down her spine that she’d felt the last time when Wanda had told her she was in danger. “Still here,” she said, trying to sound perky. Wanda just stared at her with those intense eyes.
“And yer still runnin’ after death.” There was a ring of condemnation to the words.
Myrtle shifted uncomfortably in the rocking chair. Her discomfort stemmed as much from the broken frame jutting through the cushion as it did from Wanda’s disapproval. “This time it was someone I liked,” she offered in defense. “A girl who cleaned for me. Her time was cut too short. I wanted to see what you could tell me about it.”
“Well, he didn’t do it. The one yer wantin’ ter talk to.”
“Cullen?”
“He’s feelin’ right guilty. And he weren’t the one.”
The husband usually was the one who’d murdered his wife. And she couldn’t see Cullen feeling guilty at all. Maybe Madam Zora really was a fraud, after all.
Wanda’s leathery face looked drawn and tired. “Go ahead and talk to ‘im, then. I know you will, no matter what I say.”
Myrtle reached in her pocketbook for money, but Wanda shooed a bony hand at her in irritation. “Yer puttin’ yerself in danger again. Don’t want nuthin’ to do wid it.”
Just like last time, Madam Zora’s words served to put Myrtle in a very bad mood. She wasn’t fond of being warned off. And she’d been wanting, in her heart of hearts, to pin Jill’s murder on Cullen. Cullen had been horrible to Jill and deserved some kind of retribution. He made the most sense as a murderer. Georgia seemed way too intoxicated to have killed Jill. Would Sherry actually kill over a noisy Christmas display? When it wasn’t even Christmas? Willow was angry at Jill, it was true—but she was angrier at Cullen. If Cullen had been the victim, then maybe she’d suspect Willow more. And Blanche just seemed like she wanted to stay out of Jill’s way—it didn’t seem possible that she’d deliberately go confront Jill.
So it had to be Cullen. Didn’t it? Myrtle knew Wanda was just a sham. But she couldn’t explain the uneasy feeling she got that Cullen really wasn’t the right direction for her to follow.
Taking a little ride would shake off this foreboding feeling. Back in the day, nothing had been able to take her mind off her troubles faster than a ride in the car. And lucky her—here she was with a perfectly serviceable, red Volvo at her disposal. She’d head to the town square and wave like she was in a parade. Because what was the joy in a joyride without people seeing you having fun?
Myrtle rolled the windows down and drove around the town square, honking as she went. Maisy Perry jumped half a mile and almost dropped her pocketbook. Myrtle spotted Red and waved gaily out the window of the Volvo as he glared. She even tooted the horn at Erma, who’d no doubt be gleefully spreading all kinds of stories about Myrtle since she was driving Miles’s car. She even tooted the horn at Cullen when she saw him, killer or not. Then she pulled up to the curb that Cullen was staggering off of.
“Need a ride, Cullen?” she hollered out the window at him.
And got her chance to test out Madame Zora’s prediction.
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